Our hearts beat in a rhythm. Music is built around rhythm. We sleep according to rhythms, wake according to rhythms, and move through our days according to rhythms whether we realize it or not.  Spring gives way to summer, summer fades into fall, and fall eventually settles into winter before the cycle begins all over again. Even the ocean moves as the tides rise and fall with a predictability that has existed long before any of us.

Our God is a God of rhythm.

The interesting thing, however, is that I often find myself fighting against the very thing He designed. Like many people, I enjoy predictability. I like plans and schedules. I like knowing what tomorrow is going to look like before I get there. Deep down, I am constantly trying to create a rhythm for my life that feels manageable, efficient, and productive. I want to build a system that works every day and then simply repeat it over and over again.

The problem is that life rarely cooperates with that plan.

What I have discovered is that God is far less interested in helping me create a perfectly predictable life than He is in teaching me to walk closely with Him. I would love it if He handed me a detailed blueprint for every day and simply asked me to follow it. Instead, He seems to invite me into something much more relational. Rather than giving me the exact same rhythm every day, He asks me to learn how to recognize His voice and trust His guidance in each season.

That can be difficult for someone like me because I have a tendency to run hard. Whenever I find a new project, a new hobby, or something that excites me, I often throw myself into it with more enthusiasm than wisdom. Even harder, I approach my job the same way, particularly during our busier seasons.  Before long, I find myself stretching my days longer and longer, adding more and more responsibilities, and convincing myself that if I just push a little harder everything will somehow come together.

It never works that way.

Eventually the warning signs begin to appear. I stop resting well. I stop paying attention to what my body needs. My thoughts become increasingly anxious, and the peace that normally accompanies God's presence begins to feel distant. Sometimes that anxiety expresses itself as worry. Other times it comes out as irritability. It is almost as though my emotions begin bouncing back and forth between fear and anger, never settling long enough to experience the calm that God desires for me.

Last weekend I found myself in exactly that place. I had been running hard for long enough that I finally reached a point where I didn't know how to fix what I was feeling. I was tired, stressed, and carrying a level of anxiety that had become difficult to ignore. As I prayed, I found myself telling God the truth.

I didn't have the answer.

I was exhausted and overwhelmed and that I didn't know what to do next. I expected some complicated solution or some grand revelation about what needed to change. Instead, what I sensed was a gentle reminder that felt both simple and profound.

Life has rhythms.

Your life has rhythms.

However, much of my frustration comes from trying to impose my own rhythm onto seasons where God may be inviting me into something different. I often assume that faithfulness means maintaining the exact same pace every day. But, the rhythm He has designed for my life is not always identical from one day to the next.

That realization led me to a small experiment.

For the next couple of months, I have decided that my primary focus will not be productivity. It will not be checking more boxes or accomplishing more tasks. Instead, I want to pay closer attention to God's rhythm for my life. Of course I still have responsibilities. I still have a job to do. Bills still need to be paid, work still needs to be completed, and daily responsibilities are not suddenly disappearing. But I want to become more intentional about asking God what He wants me to do with the hours that remain.

What does He want my mornings to look like?

What does He want my evenings to look like?

When does He want me to work hard, and when does He want me to rest?

The surprising part is that the answer has not been the same every day.

Yesterday, for example, I had every intention of getting up at five o'clock in the morning. The plan was already made. My alarm was set. My schedule was organized. Yet when the alarm sounded, I sensed the Lord gently nudging me toward something I hadn't planned.

Sleep.

Not forever. Not because discipline didn't matter. Simply because on that particular day, rest was what I needed most.

So I turned off the alarm and went back to sleep.

Not too long ago I probably would have argued with that decision. I would have convinced myself that pushing through exhaustion was somehow more spiritual or more productive. Instead, I slept a little longer and woke up feeling refreshed. Later that evening I exercised after work instead of before it. The schedule was different. The routine was different. The rhythm was different.

And everything was perfectly fine.

What God continues to teach me is that He understands how He created me far better than I do. He knows when I need rest and when I need activity. He knows when I need solitude and when I need community. He knows when I need to be productive and when I need to simply sit quietly in His presence. My responsibility is not to force every day into the exact same mold. My responsibility is to remain close enough to Him that I can recognize His leading.

Perhaps that is what walking with God has always been about.

Drawing Closer To Him

One of the things God has been teaching me recently is that weariness itself is not necessarily a sign that something is wrong.

I think many of us spend a great deal of our lives chasing a future version of ourselves that is somehow free from stress, responsibility, and exhaustion. We imagine that if we could just find the right job, the right schedule, the right budget, the right routine, or the right productivity system, we would finally arrive at a place where life no longer feels so demanding.

The problem is that Scripture never promises us a life without weariness.

David certainly understood what it felt like to be exhausted. In Psalm 6:6 he cries out, "I am worn out from my groaning. All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears." Those are not the words of someone who is experiencing life in a perfectly rested state. 

More and more, I realize that life is simply tiring. Some seasons are certainly heavier than others, and some responsibilities carry a greater burden than others, but living in a fallen world requires effort. From the moment sin entered creation, humanity was told that life would involve toil. We would work. We would struggle. We would carry responsibilities. We would become weary.

As much as I occasionally dream about quitting my job, putting my feet up, moving to Florida, and spending my days staring at the ocean while God somehow takes care of everything else, I know that is not the season He has called me to right now. Perhaps someday life will look different. But for now, God has entrusted me with responsibilities that often leave me tired at the end of the day.

The question is not whether I will become weary.

The question is what I will do with that weariness when it arrives.

Jesus said in Matthew 11:28, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

The very existence of that invitation tells us something important. If weariness were unusual, there would be no need for the promise. Jesus knew that His people would become tired. He knew we would become overwhelmed. He knew there would be seasons when the burdens of life felt heavier than we could comfortably carry.

The promise was never that we would avoid weariness.

The promise was that we would have somewhere to take it.

That realization has become incredibly important to me because weariness affects more than just my energy level. If I am not careful, exhaustion begins to influence my emotions, my thinking, and my decisions. When I become tired, I often become discouraged. Problems seem larger than they really are. Obstacles feel more permanent than they actually are. 

And if I am not careful, I begin looking for relief in places that cannot actually provide it.

I might overeat. I might become irritable with people I love. I might distract myself with entertainment, projects, or endless scrolling. Yet none of those things solve the underlying problem. They may provide a temporary escape, but they cannot provide true rest.

Only Jesus can do that.

He is the only Savior who offers rest for weary souls. He is the only one capable of carrying burdens that have become too heavy for us. And I think one of the great challenges of the Christian life is learning that when we are especially tired, especially overwhelmed, and especially burdened, we need to move toward Him rather than away from Him.

That sounds obvious until exhaustion arrives.

When we are weary, prayer often feels harder. Reading Scripture requires more effort. Worship can feel difficult. Yet those are precisely the moments when we need His presence most.

The answer to weariness has never been simply trying harder.

It has always been drawing closer to the One who promises rest.

Rest For The Weary

I think part of the freedom that comes from accepting weariness as a normal part of life is realizing that God has already provided a way for us to manage it.

As I have been working my way through the Old Testament this year, one of the things that has stood out to me repeatedly is how often God talks about rest. Again and again, He instructed His people to observe the Sabbath. Entire sections are devoted to commands surrounding rest, and at first glance it can feel like just another set of Old Testament rules that no longer apply to us. Yet the more I read, the more I find myself looking beyond the rule itself and asking why God emphasized it so strongly in the first place.

I don't believe God's intention was simply to create another obligation for His people to follow. Rather, I think He was teaching them something about the way they had been designed.

Human beings have limits.

We are not machines. We cannot run endlessly without consequences. We were created with bodies that require sleep, minds that require quiet, and souls that require time in the presence of God. The Sabbath was not evidence of God's desire to restrict His people. It was evidence of His love for them. He knew they would become weary, so He intentionally built rest into the rhythm of their lives.

I am certainly not suggesting that Christians return to the legal requirements of the Old Testament Sabbath. The New Testament makes it clear that our righteousness is not found in perfectly observing a particular day. Yet I do think there is tremendous wisdom in recognizing the principle behind it.

God created us to need rest.

So, I have been protecting my Sundays.

Not everyone has that luxury. Some people work weekends. Others have family obligations or schedules that make a full day Sabbath impossible. But for this season of my life, Sunday has become a day when I intentionally step away from many of the things that drain me.

I do not work.

I avoid most electronics.

Instead, I make room for God to pour back into me.

That distinction has become increasingly important to me because so much of my week is spent creating output. At work, I am solving problems, making decisions, answering questions, and carrying responsibilities. Even in ministry, writing, and serving others, there is often an element of giving. There is nothing wrong with that. In fact, much of it is good and necessary. But eventually there must be moments when I stop producing and allow God to replenish what has been poured out.

I cannot continually pour from a cup that is empty.

What I find interesting is that biblical rest does not necessarily look the way we often imagine it. Jesus certainly did not spend all of His time resting in bed. We see Him teaching, walking, serving, healing, and ministering to others. Yet we also see Him intentionally withdrawing to quiet places. We see Him stepping away from the crowds. We see Him spending time alone with His Father.

Rest was the presence of connection.

It is easy to assume rest means doing absolutely nothing. While there are certainly moments when we need a nap or a quiet afternoon, true rest goes much deeper than simply being inactive. Rest is allowing our hearts, minds, and souls to reconnect with the God who created us.

The form of rest may vary, but the purpose remains the same.

We are allowing God to restore what life has depleted.

Rest is not a luxury. It is not something we do after all of our work is finished. If that were the requirement, most of us would never rest at all because there will always be one more task to complete, one more responsibility to carry, or one more item to add to the list.

Rest is part of God's design for us.

It is woven into the rhythm of creation itself.

When we ignore that rhythm, we often find ourselves anxious, exhausted, and running on empty. But when we embrace it, we begin to experience the wisdom of a God who understands us better than we understand ourselves.

God knows that in a world filled with toil and weariness, His children will need regular reminders to stop, breathe, and simply rest in His presence.

That is not weakness.

That is obedience.

And perhaps one of the greatest acts of trust we can offer God is believing that the world will continue turning for a few hours while we sit quietly at His feet.

I boarded the flight home from Tucson with tired eyes, stretchy pants, and a deeply driven desire for some coffee. My flight left at 6:00 a.m., which meant I had been awake long before sunrise, shuffling through security lines and making my way through the airport while most people were still asleep. By the time I settled into my seat, I was mostly focused on getting home.

As passengers continued boarding, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation taking place across the aisle. An elderly woman sitting by the window had stopped a flight attendant and was explaining that when her ticket had been scanned at the gate, they had taken it from her and never given it back.

"They took my ticket," she insisted.

The flight attendant looked puzzled. You could see the skepticism on his face, and if I'm honest, most of us around her probably shared it. Airlines don't usually take your ticket when they scan it.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes. They took it."

"Have you checked your pockets?"

As she searched through her belongings, it quickly became apparent that something more was going on. Her confusion wasn't simply forgetfulness. There seemed to be some level of cognitive impairment, and as the conversation continued, the flight attendant eventually moved on to help other passengers while she continued searching for the ticket she was convinced had been taken from her.

A woman was sitting in the aisle seat beside her, and before long a man arrived who had been assigned the middle seat. The elderly woman had placed several bags and personal items in the empty seat.

"You'll have to move your things," the woman beside her said.

"What?" the elderly woman asked.

"You'll have to move your things. Someone is sitting there."

She looked genuinely confused.

"Why?"

"Because he has that seat."

The explanation didn't seem to make much sense to her, but she slowly gathered her belongings and placed them under the seat in front of her. A few moments later, the plane pushed back from the gate and we were on our way.

As the flight continued, I found myself paying less attention to the woman and more attention to the man sitting beside her. She asked him the same questions repeatedly throughout the flight. Every few minutes the conversation seemed to circle back to her missing ticket. She worried about where it had gone and why they had taken it. Each time, he calmly reassured her that she didn't need it anymore. She was already on the plane, and everything was fine.

At one point, an announcement came over the loudspeaker explaining where passengers could retrieve their checked luggage after landing. The woman immediately looked up and answered the announcement.

"I didn't check any luggage."

A few moments later she turned to the man sitting beside her.

"Why do they keep telling me that when I didn't check any luggage?"

But what stayed with me wasn't her confusion. It was his kindness.

For the entire flight he answered her questions patiently. He explained the announcements. He reassured her about her ticket. He listened to her concerns. He never sounded frustrated. He never ignored her. He never treated her as though she were a burden. Instead, he treated her with a remarkable amount of dignity and respect.

The longer I watched, the more I appreciated what I was seeing. Most of us can be patient for a few minutes. Many of us can extend grace once or twice. But it is much harder to answer the same questions over and over again without showing irritation. Yet every time she returned to the same concerns, he responded as though it were the first time she had asked.

When the plane landed and passengers began gathering their belongings, the woman looked up toward the speaker above her seat.

"I need a wheelchair," she said.

Of course, no one responded. The speaker wasn't designed for conversation, but she still believed it was speaking directly to her.

Around her, the familiar rush of deplaning had already begun. Overhead bins were opening. Bags were being pulled down. People were inching forward into the aisle, eager to continue with their day. Yet in the middle of all that movement sat this woman, confused and vulnerable, trying to navigate a situation that no longer seemed to make complete sense to her.

As I stepped into the aisle myself, I heard the man beside her stop a flight attendant.

"The woman in 14F needs a wheelchair," he said.

It was such a small moment that most people probably never noticed it. The flight was over. He wasn't related to her. He wasn't responsible for her. Their connection lasted only as long as the flight itself. He could have simply walked away and continued on with his day.

But he didn't.

Instead, he made sure she had what she needed before continuing on his own journey.

Standing there in that crowded airplane aisle, I couldn't help but think about Jesus.

One of the things that has always stood out to me in the gospels is how attentive Jesus was to people. He noticed individuals everyone else seemed to overlook. He stopped for the blind beggar while others kept walking. He paused for the woman who touched His garment while everyone else was focused on getting somewhere. He made time for people who were hurting, vulnerable, forgotten, or pushed to the margins.

As I reflected on what I had witnessed, I realized it wasn't simply the man's patience that impressed me. It was the dignity with which he treated her. He didn't laugh at her confusion. He didn't dismiss her concerns. He didn't speak down to her. He simply cared for her.

His actions reminded me of Jesus' words in Matthew 25:40:

"Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

When I read that verse, I often think of large acts of service. I think about mission trips, food pantries, disaster relief efforts, and ministries that serve hundreds or even thousands of people. Yet sitting on that airplane, I was reminded that sometimes Matthew 25:40 looks much smaller than we imagine.

Sometimes it looks like answering the same question for the tenth time.

Sometimes it looks like slowing down when everyone else is hurrying.

Sometimes it looks like showing dignity to someone who is confused, frightened, or vulnerable.

Sometimes it looks like seat 14E.

The longer I thought about it, the more convinced I became that God had been caring for that woman long before she ever stepped onto the airplane. He knew she would be confused. He knew she would worry about her ticket. He knew she would need reassurance throughout the flight. He knew she would need someone willing to patiently answer her questions and help her navigate a journey that must have felt overwhelming.

And somehow, among all the possible seating assignments on that aircraft, she ended up sitting next to exactly the right person.

I don't know her story, and I don't know his. Perhaps he had cared for a parent facing similar challenges. Perhaps he had simply learned patience through hardships of his own. Or perhaps God had quietly prepared him for that assignment without either of them fully realizing it.

What I do know is that moments like these remind me how active God remains in the ordinary details of life. We often look for Him in the dramatic and miraculous. We want burning bushes, parted seas, and unmistakable signs from heaven. Yet so much of God's work happens quietly through ordinary people who choose kindness, compassion, and grace.

How many times has God cared for us through people whose names we'll never know? How many times has He met a need before we even realized we had one? How many times has He arranged circumstances, conversations, and encounters behind the scenes in ways we'll never fully understand?

The older I get, the more convinced I become that God's fingerprints are everywhere. Most of the time, we simply move too quickly to notice them.

Blessings Hidden In Inconveniences

Florida never disappoints when it comes to roller coasters, fireworks, and making memories. The one thing that always catches me off guard, though, is the heat. Walking through a Florida theme park in late May feels a little like walking around inside a convection oven. By the end of the week, after several days of back-to-back parks, my step counts were off the charts and every muscle in my body was reminding me exactly how many miles I had covered.

So I decided to treat myself to a massage at a nearby spa.

The spa wasn't located at our resort, which meant I needed to call an Uber. As I waited outside, I found myself reflecting on the week. It had been wonderful. We had laughed, explored, and spent time together in ways that don't always happen during normal life. At the same time, I realized I had drifted away from some of the daily routines.

I don't think that's entirely a bad thing. Vacations are meant to disrupt our routines. They pull us away from schedules and obligations and give us opportunities to experience new things. But I was beginning to miss my mornings. I missed my coffee, my Bible, and the quiet time I spend with God before the rest of the world wakes up. Those moments have become a kind of spiritual armor for me. They don't make God love me any more than He already does, but they help me remember who He is before I face everything else the day may bring.

When the Uber arrived, I climbed into the back seat and immediately noticed the radio station. Christian music was playing through the speakers, and my driver was singing along as he drove. English clearly wasn't his first language, but he knew every word.

As we made our way through traffic, something unexpected happened.

Tears began to fill my eyes.

I turned my head toward the window and did my best to hide them. Nothing particularly emotional had happened. The driver wasn't preaching a sermon. He wasn't sharing his testimony. He was simply singing worship songs while doing his job. Yet somewhere in that ordinary moment, I felt God gently tapping me on the shoulder.

It was as though He was reminding me, "I'm still here. I haven't gone anywhere. I still see you."

The funny thing is that my driver wasn't having the easiest day. He managed to get lost twice on the way to the spa. When we got lost the second time, he shrugged his shoulders sheepishly, and said, "Sometimes GPS gets me in trouble."

I assured him it wasn't a problem.

But afterward I couldn't help wondering if perhaps it wasn't GPS at all. Maybe God simply wanted a few extra minutes.

A few extra minutes for a tired woman sitting in the back seat of an Uber to remember that God doesn't only meet us in our morning devotions. He doesn't only speak in church sanctuaries or during carefully planned quiet times. Sometimes He shows up in the most unexpected places, even in the back seat of a car driven by a man singing worship songs.

God Shows Up In The Ordinary

I love my routines. I love my morning coffee, my Bible, and the quiet moments before the rest of the world wakes up. Over the years, those mornings have become part of the foundation of my faith.  When life gets busy, those quiet moments are often what keep me centered.

But one thing I've learned after walking with Jesus for many years is that while routines are important, God is not limited by them.

In fact, I think one of the reasons the Uber ride affected me so deeply was because it reminded me that God doesn't wait for me to sit down with a cup of coffee and an open Bible before He speaks. He certainly meets me there, but He isn't confined to that space. He is just as present in traffic as He is in my living room, just as capable of getting my attention in the middle of a busy vacation as He is during a carefully planned quiet time.

I was reminded of that again today.

Work was busy, and I had more than enough reasons to stay at my desk through lunch. My inbox wasn't getting any smaller, and there were plenty of tasks competing for my attention. Yet throughout the morning, I felt a gentle nudge that wouldn't go away. It wasn't audible, but it was familiar. After all these years of walking with the Lord, I've learned to recognize those moments when He seems to be inviting me to step away from the noise for a little while.

The thought kept coming back: Grab your lunch and go sit in your car.

Honestly, it didn't make much sense. My car was parked several levels underground in the parking garage beneath our office building. It certainly wasn't the most inspiring place to spend a lunch break. Yet the prompting persisted, so eventually I grabbed my lunch, a bottle of water, and headed downstairs.

The moment I closed the car door behind me, everything changed. The parking garage was deep enough underground that my cell phone lost its signal completely. No notifications appeared. No emails came through. No messages buzzed for my attention. For the first time all day, there was nothing competing for my focus. Just silence.

I keep a paper Bible in my car, so I opened it while I ate my lunch. As I read, I could actually feel the tension of the day beginning to loosen its grip. Nothing dramatic happened. There wasn't a profound revelation waiting on the page. There was simply the quiet presence of God meeting me in a place I never would have chosen for myself.

As I sat there, I found myself thinking about how often God works that way. We tend to imagine that meaningful encounters with Him happen in church sanctuaries, Bible studies, and prayer rooms. Those places certainly matter, but Scripture is filled with stories of God meeting people in far less impressive settings. He met Moses in the wilderness while tending sheep. He met fishermen while they were cleaning nets. He met disciples on dusty roads and weary travelers beside wells.

God has never seemed particularly concerned with the location.

What He desires is relationship.

Perhaps that's why so many testimonies begin in such ordinary places. Someone comes to faith while driving down the road. Someone hears His voice during a walk. Someone cries out to Him from a hospital waiting room, a kitchen table, or a lonely apartment. The setting is rarely what makes the moment sacred. God's presence is.

And that is what continues to amaze me. The Creator of the universe, the One who spoke galaxies into existence, is willing to meet us in the ordinary moments of our lives. Not because the place is special, but because we are.

The Uber driver reminded me that God can show up in unexpected places. A quiet lunch break in an underground parking garage reminded me that He does it far more often than I realize.

The God of Relationship

But why does God do that?

Why does He meet us in parking garages and Uber rides and walks around the neighborhood? Why does He seem so willing to show up in the ordinary moments of our lives?  I think the answer is surprisingly simple.

He wants a relationship with us.

If you stop and think about it, imagine having someone in your life that you only spent an hour with each week. Maybe you see them every Sunday morning, exchange a few words, and then go your separate ways until the following week.

Would you really know that person?

Would they really know you?

Could you honestly call that a close relationship?

Probably not.

Relationships are built in the ordinary moments. They are built over conversations, shared experiences, quiet afternoons, unexpected phone calls, and simply doing life together. The people closest to us aren't the people we occasionally see during scheduled appointments. They're the people who share the everyday moments with us.

And isn't it interesting that God seems to operate the same way?

Sometimes I think we unconsciously treat our relationship with Him as though it were a weekly appointment. We go to church. We attend Bible study. We spend time in prayer. All of those things matter deeply, but they were never intended to be the entirety of our relationship with God.

The God of Scripture is astonishingly personal.

He doesn't simply want an hour of our attention each week. He wants to walk with us through our lives. He wants to be present in the commute, the lunch break, the difficult meeting, the vacation, the hospital waiting room, and the quiet drive home after a long day.

Only someone who desires genuine closeness shows up in those moments.

Only a parent, a spouse, a close friend, or a beloved family member becomes part of the ordinary details of your life. Casual acquaintances rarely know what your lunch break looks like. They don't know what weighs on your mind during your commute or what keeps you awake at night.

But the people closest to you do.

And God does.

The Creator of the universe isn't primarily interested in what He can get from us. He isn't sitting in heaven anxiously counting church attendance, tallying accomplishments, or measuring spiritual performance. If Christianity were merely about performance, then the people who looked the most religious would have been the people Jesus praised most often.

Instead, Jesus continually invited people into relationship.

He ate meals with them.

He walked with them.

He traveled with them.

He listened to them.

Again and again, we see a God who is less interested in creating impressive followers and more interested in drawing close to His children.

Perhaps that's why He meets us in the ordinary moments.

Not because those moments are impressive, but because they are where our lives actually happen.

And if God truly desires relationship with us, then it makes perfect sense that He would choose to meet us there.